Lysa dressed Sabine in white silk layered over silver, with structured shoulders and long sleeves that left the mark visible at her wrist.
Beautiful.
Restrictive.
Designed to make purity look like spectacle.
“The court is not coming to see justice,” Lysa said as she fastened the throat clasp. “They are coming to see which woman survives being publicly interpreted.”
Sabine watched her reflection in the tall mirror.
She looked like a woman prepared for coronation or sacrifice, and the palace had made those identical.
“How many are expected?”
“Full attendance. Crown, temple, council, noble houses, foreign observers.” Lysa’s hands stilled. “Everyone who wants to see whether Lucien chooses safety or repeats his first mistake.”
Sabine touched the hidden seam beneath her ribs where Isolde’s letter still rested.
The carved bird sat on the desk beside the copied score fragment.
Instructions, not comfort.
A knock sounded.
Lucien entered without waiting for permission.
He looked at Sabine in the white gown and his face changed.
Not softly.
Harder.
“Serast will push devotion,” he said. “Yselle will be perfect. The court will want me to choose safety.”
“And you will choose what you choose.”
“Yes.” He crossed to her. “You must not answer as a bride trying to be acceptable. Answer as yourself.”
Sabine met his eyes in the mirror.
“I stopped being acceptable the moment I revised the vow in the Trial of Surrender.”
“Good.”
His hand touched her shoulder briefly.
The bond pulsed once.
Then he left because guards were watching and the palace turned every touch into scandal.
Lysa handed Sabine a final piece.
A thin silver circlet, not heavy enough to be a crown but ceremonial enough to mark her as chosen.
“This is what candidates wear to the final public trial,” Lysa said. “So the court knows who has reached this far.”
Sabine let her place it.
